


Prove it

by isa_belle



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), But just a little, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Injuries, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, Pining, they're like 17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 21:06:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20495333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isa_belle/pseuds/isa_belle
Summary: I lay on my bed at probably 12 o’clock at night, the moonlight streaking into my room from the window, cut up by the shadow of the half-open curtain. Legs spread out like a starfish, arms crossed over the pillow on my chest, my eyes follow the blades of the ceiling fan as they spin (around and around so quickly all I see is a blurry circle). I chew my lip and I think about Richie Tozier.





	Prove it

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many spoilers for It Chapter two and I'm not mentally prepared to watch this movie yet, so I'm just gonna pretend it'd not happening. Enjoy whatever this is :)

I lay on my bed at probably 12 o’clock at night, the moonlight streaking into my room from the window, cut up by the shadow of the half-open curtain. Legs spread out like a starfish, arms crossed over the pillow on my chest, my eyes follow the blades of the ceiling fan as they spin (around and around so quickly all I see is a blurry circle). I chew my lip and I think about Richie Tozier. 

I think about him too often. It’s not normal, it’s not supposed to be like that, it’s  _ wrong _ . But I think about him anyway. 

I think about his eyes, a golden sort of brown that shines whenever he tells one of his dumb jokes. About the freckles littering his cheeks like little paint spots. About the curve of his smile, the way he flashes his teeth when he laughs, all scrunched up and happy. About how he mutters stupid  _ stupid _ words that I don’t think are funny (but I laugh anyway). How he treats me so different than my mother, like I’m anything but fragile. I think about his lips, red and probably warm. And then a blush and exhale roughly, quickly shaking my head like my brain is a etch-a-sketch and if I jerk it fast enough all the thoughts I don’t like will clear and I’ll be left with a blank slate. But I don’t think I could ever  _ really _ get rid of Richie Tozier. 

I know how I love Richie. Because I know how I love Stan and Bill and Bev and Mike and Ben and how it’s different. It’s  so different and I can’t explain it in words. The way I love him makes me nauseas. It makes me feel light-headed and sick with a sort of wonderful undertone of butterflies and heat. It makes my knees weak and my cheeks flush and my heart soar. And it scares the shit out of me. 

Because loving him here, in this town, makes me a walking target. You may as well stick a glowing neon sign to my back, with big blocky letters that say _pick on me, punch me in the face, I’m different, I’m weird, I’m ga—_

I stop myself before I can finish the thought, and I feel my breathing pick up. Quickly reach for the inhaler on my bedside table, tossing my pillow aside. When my fingers wrap around it, I bring my it to my lips, breathing in a puff of nasty air, and twisting my face in familiar disgust. 

I sit up taking in big gulps of air, telling myself to calm down, crossing my legs and tracing the label on the inhaler with my thumb. I sit like that, in thoughtful silence, pondering and trying not to ponder. Trying to tie down my thoughts, to keep my mind from wandering to places I don’t want to go. And then I hear a  _ thunk _ from the window.

I jump up at the sound, already on edge, holding out my aspirator as if to shoot the source of the noise and biting back a shout. I glance around in the dark. 

I’m about to say “who’s there?” when I hear a muffled sounding “Eds let me in!” And my face breaks out into a smile. 

Speak of the fucking devil. 

I hop out of bed, tucking my inhaler in my pocket. I throw open the window and Lo and behold, there hangs one Richie Tozier, grinning like an idiot, eyes sparkling, face shrouded in shadows, his long curls falling over my face as he leans down at me from the windowsill. 

“There’s my Eddie Spaghetti! And here I was thinking you were gonna leave me to freeze.”

His voice sounds a little off, but I decide to ignore it because his face is only inches from mine. I can feel his words on my skin, warm against the cool of my cheeks and I know my face goes ruddy (I’m thankful for the dark of my room). I clear my throat. 

“Calm down Rich, it’s October, it’s not that fucking cold. And don’t call me that.” 

“What, Eds or Eddie Spaghetti?” He says. I roll my eyes. 

“Both”

He laughs and goes to climb in, but falls through, like his legs turned to jelly. He lands with a loud  _ thump! _

“Rich!” I scramble to help him, sitting him up and angrily whispering “what the fuck are you doing? Do you want my mother to fucking kill you? She will! Why are you even-“

But then I look back down at him, sprawled out on the floor. The shadows on his face are gone and he’s illuminated by the glow of the moon. His eyes glisten with the beginnings of tears and he blinks them away as they come, his smile looking a little cracked. He’s bleeding. He’s bleeding a lot.

My eyes widen and I reach out, my fingers lightly graze his cheek. He flinches and pulls back, turning his head so he’s not facing me. My fingers come away bloody. “Richie?” I hear myself say as I go over the mental list of people who might’ve hurt him. (It’s annoyingly long)

“I’m fine, Eds.” (His voice wavers in a way it never does and my chest fills with tar, clogging my airways and making it hard to breathe.) 

“Then why are you here?”

He sighs and says nothing. I didn’t really expect him to. “C’mon” I gently grab his wrist, swallowing my panic and tugging him up and towards my bathroom, making him sit. I open the cabinet above the sink and he laughs a little dry laugh as I stretch and stretch to reach the first aid supplies (which unfortunately just so happen to reside on the highest shelf). I flip him off and hop up onto the counter, digging through the cabinets past seemingly never ending rows of pill bottles, eventually finding what I need and tucking it under my arm. 

Once I have the first aid kit, I kneel in front of him, lifting my hand up to his face again, grabbing his chin and tilting his head this way and that to inspect the wounds. (I try not to think about how this is weird. This is so totally weird. I shouldn’t be touching his face it’s... gross. But my fingers tingle where they touch his skin no matter what I do so I just pinch myself and keep going.) They’re worse than I thought, blood gushes from his nose and there’s a nauseatingly purple bruise under his eye, plus a cut on his cheek. (He stares at me and I feel a little exposed.)

“Fuck.” I breathe. “What happened? Was it Bowers or someone or—?”

I grab a rag and bring it to his cheek, carefully wiping away the blood. He grits his teeth. 

“Wasn’t Bowers.” He says dismissively, trying to sound casual (though he’s squeezed his eyes shut in pain.) But I’m not willing to give up that easily. I set the rag down in my lap. 

“_Richie_.” I say, firm but gentle, trying to push but not too hard. 

He opens his eyes, big and brown and vulnerable. Our gazes meet and I think he might fall apart as he says, “_Eds_.” Like his voice won’t work right. 

“Fine,” I mutter and continue cleaning his face, trying to slow my heart rate every time he leans into the touch of my fingers on his cheek. We sit there for the better part of thirty minutes, blushing and stammering when my hands brush his face a little to softly. I press a band-aid over the bridge of his nose and he looks right into my eyes, like he’s searching for something. I blink back at him until he looks away, my stomach swimming with anxiety. 

When he’s all bandaged and clean he mutters a thank you. 

“I can go now,” Richie says, looking at the ground, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come.”

I protest immediately, because that’s a dumb thing to say. And I almost say lots of things.  _Shut up Rich._ Or _Stay. Please stay_.  Or _Who did this to you? _

But what I do say is “what does that mean?”

He laughs a very nervous very not Richie laugh. “I was a little...” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully, “delirious. I’ll— I’ll see ya Spaghetti.” He stands (and he’s quite the sight, all long limbs and bruises, his T-shirt hanging a little too loosely on him, thick glasses making his eyes big and glassy) to climb back out the window but I grab his hand. 

He turns back and I give him a pointed look. “Richie, you can stay, it’s fine.” 

_I care about you so it’s fine. (I love you so it’s fine.) _

He nods and sits on my bed. I sit next to him and we bask in a borderline uncomfortable silence for a few moments. And it fills me with rage.  _ Because _ _what the hell? He can’t just come in here crying, covered in bruises and blood like he was fucking jumped and just act like nothing happened._ Richie's not speaking. He's not isn’t yammering on and on like he always does, so I know something's wrong. And he knows I know too. But he won’t say. And I want to yell at him and punch him in the mouth and kiss him all at the same time. I let out a huff of frustration. 

I lay back and he does as well. I haven’t let go of his hand. His palm feels heavy in mine and he just breathes in the silence. 

“My mom.” He says, after a minute, so quiet I’m not even sure the words ever really left his mouth. 

I knit my eyebrows. “Huh?”

He gestures to his face (and there’s this look he wears. It’s like trepidation and trust. And fear too, just peeking through in the tilt of his lips) and says again, “my mom.” 

And then it clicks and I’m sitting lighting fast. “What the fuck?”

Richie winces. “She did this to you?” He just nods, trailing his thumb along my hand. And the lack of talking is jarring now, less annoying and more frightening (his hand shakes a little and I squeeze it). Richie is _never_ silent. Richie doesn’t know how to shut up. He’s the mouthy kid. And now he’s laying in my bed and holding my hand, tears in his eyes, open and so very quiet (so quiet it’s deafening.)

Before I know it my thoughts have all turned red and all I see is fire. I knew his mom wasn’t great but I never thought she was this bad. Why would she do this? How could she do this?

And why didn't Richie tell me?

“Rich,” I say (and my voice is impossibly soft, a sharp contrast to the angry screech of my thoughts). I try to put a million feelings into the word. I don’t know if he gets it, he just sighs and looks at our hands.

Then softly, (and heart wrenchingly broken) he says, “sometimes I think I deserve it.”

My eyes widen a little. “Rich, you don’t-“

He shakes his head, “I just—I’m not really anything, am I? I’m just stupid and everyone thinks I’m annoying. I bother people. And I try not to, I swear, but—“ he blinks, “I don’t know. It’s stupid, never mind”

I feel my stomach sink.  _(_ _ You’re not annoying, _ I think _ ,  you’re not stupid. You don’t bother me.) _

“Sure.” He glances away from me and I realize I just said that all out loud. And that I’d say it a million times if it’d make him understand. 

“ _ Richie _ .” I grab the side of his face frantically, brushing his hair aside, (and he looks so sad it’s striking. The tears are one thing but the look of defeat makes me want to hold him and never let go.) “you’re not annoying. You’re not stupid. You  _ don’t _ bother me.”

“Why?” I almost have to cross my eyes to see him. (And I think this crosses normal friend lines. And my heart thumps in my ears) But for once I’m not blushing and glancing away. 

“Because you’re just you. And yeah you're annoying as hell and you make dumb jokes that aren’t even fucking funny—“ I let out a breathy laugh and I can’t describe the way he’s looking at me, really. His eyes are shining like he’s looking at the sun, “—but it doesn’t bother me because it’s you. You’re  _ you _ .”

I think our faces are closer. Our noses are touching. My hands are on his face and his are holding my wrists (And we’ve definitely crossed friend lines now. His eyes dart down to my lips and I feel my heart in my throat. All I can think is _ fuck fuck fuck _ .)

“Prove it.” He says. Like it’s a challenge. Like there’s a winner. I tilt my head a little and try not to think about how easily our lips could slot together. ( _ Holy shit holy shit holy shit _ ). 

All rational thoughts have left my brain. It’s all ‘prove it prove it prove it  _ prove it _ _’_ and his breath on my cheeks, heat lighting up my face. I want to prove it. I want to show him that he matters. I want to close the distance, press my mouth against his. 

So I do. 

With a huff and a little “ _ Richie _ ,” I yank his face past that fraction of an inch of space left between us. And I kiss him. I’m kissing him. I’m  _ kissing _ Richie Tozier. And it’s like an explosion. 

He doesn’t move at first, and I almost pull back, but when I try it’s like he snaps back into reality, gasping and pushing forward, hands sliding to my waist, pulling me closer (and I think I’m combusting. I can’t breathe but fuck oxygen, I’d rather suffocate with his mouth on mine than ever stop doing this). His glasses keep knocking against my face so I pull them off and he giggles into my mouth and the chills that dance over my body in that moment might be the single best thing I’ve ever felt. 

I reluctantly pull away after a few minutes, figuring we should probably talk about this. We’re both breathless and flushed and Richie blushes as he blindly paws around my bed for his glasses. I laugh and scoop them up, holding them above my head. He reaches for them, falling and landing on my chest and just looking at me for a moment, his eyes sparkling. He presses his lips to my cheek and I sigh a little. 

“So that was—“ I start (he kisses my jaw.)

“Yeah”

“And we are?” I brush his hair out of his eyes. He thinks about it. I can tell by the way his eyes cloud. And I realize how well we can read each other. 

He smiles a little, “whatever you want, Eds.”

I meet his eyes (and I think that if I blink he’ll disappear. All the smiles and giggles and kisses and bright cheeks). 

“You.” I say because it’s true and I mean it. “I want you.”

Then he presses his mouth to mine again and I know he wants the same thing. And I smile so wide it messes up the kiss but I don’t think he really minds. 

“Me too.” He says and it’s not teasing. It’s earnest and almost desperate and his forehead is resting on mine and our breath mixes. “I want you too.”

So I kiss him. And he laughs in surprise and I kiss him again. And I could do this forever. (He runs his thumbs over my cheek and I’m sure my whole bed smells like him by now and he pulls away and kisses my nose.) And I think maybe I will.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I really hope you liked it! Comment any prompts bc I want to write but I don’t know what to write (no promises I’ll do them but I’ll try my best) or comment if you just want to validate me. Bye :)


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